


The Colour of Fire

by elfin



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 16:20:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19154635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elfin/pseuds/elfin
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale finally work things out.





	The Colour of Fire

From his practically supine position on the not entirely comfortable chaise longe, which is squashed between a weight bearing stone pillar and an over-stocked wooden bookshelf, Crowley asks, ’Do you think… do you, that we might, possibly, all things considered in the grand scheme of… things, in the great and… ineffable plan, do you think, for just a moment, that we might, actually, technically speaking, have a drinking problem?’

Aziraphale, who is sitting low down in his favourite chair, slouched within its straight back and high arms, his shoulders pushed up to his ears, holds his glass a little way from his mouth and looks curiously into it before cautiously raising it to his lips and slurping the wine in the most graceful way he can manage.

‘No.’ Comes his certain and unshakable answer. ‘I’m perfectly capable of drinking. And so are you, for that matter, otherwise you wouldn’t be as pi-, as shi-, as successfully drunk as you obviously are.’

‘I mean…. What do I mean? I mean! Perhaps we shouldn’t drink so much.’

Aziraphale looks across the room at him studiously. ‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. Something I read about… taking years off your life, or something.’

‘How many years?’ The angel shakes his head. ‘I don’t think that actually applies to us. I mean, ten years off eternity is still eternity, isn’t it?’

Crowley feels immediately happier. There’s a long silence which might stretch a few minutes or might stretch a few hours. 

‘You said Adam was human,’ he says eventually. 

‘I said, as far as I could tell.’

‘And how far was that?’

‘Clearly not far enough.’ 

Aziraphale is his own worst critic, and he did make Crowley feel better about the drinking, so he says, ‘You don’t have to be perfect, angel.’

‘But he rebuilt everything. Overnight.’

‘At least he rebuilt it right.’

‘Is the Bentley all right? Did you check? I only glanced….’

‘Flawless. How about this place?’

‘Some of the books that are here now definitely weren’t here before the fire. Children’s books mostly, rare old first editions. And there are some mint condition magazines. Some of the cover pictures look familiar. There’s a kraken.’

‘Oh!’ Crowley put his hand up excitedly, like a kid in class with the right answer for once. ‘I know that one! Lives under the sea! Big bugger!’

Aziraphale stares at him. ’That’s the one.’ 

‘More wine!’

Crowley slides off the chair as gracefully as a snake, shuffling across the floor on his knees to the table next to Aziraphale’s chair to grab the bottle and refill their glasses. A drop rolls down the bottle and ends up on the wooden floor. He watches it happen, then miracles it away.

He can’t be bothered to go back to where he’s been sitting all night, and instead he ends up with his back against the angel’s chair, legs out in front of him.

‘What happened to my shoes?’ he wonders out loud, because he really can’t remember. They’re bound to be around here somewhere.

Aziraphale doesn’t answer, which is fair enough he supposes. It was a mostly rhetorical question. But a couple of minutes later, he feels something crawling around in his hair, tries to swat it away before he realises it’s Aziraphale’s fingers.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Your hair.’ There’s an odd note to the angel’s voice, like he’s discovered something new.

‘What about it?’

‘It’s so… nice.’

Crowley isn’t sure how to take that. ‘Nice?’

‘To touch. I mean, the colour is, obviously. It’s the colour of flames, oranges and reds, depending on the light. Sometimes, when the sun’s just right there’s a hint of gold in there too. Not that I’ve been keeping notes, or anything.’

It’s taking Crowley a little while to catch up. ’Gold?’

‘It feels like silk.’

‘Silk?’ The touching’s nice though, he’s surprised to find. He doesn’t get touched often so he definitely doesn’t want that to stop. ‘Yours looks like it would feel like fur. Soft, soft fur.’ He’s aware that his eyes are closing and he might be leaning back into Aziraphale’s touch more than he should be. He might also be….

‘Crowley, are you purring?’

He immediately stops. ‘What? Of course not.’ The touching’s stopped, so he turns his head to look up at the angel. Then he shifts over, to bring his left side into line with Aziraphale’s leg. ‘Purring?’ He shakes his head, drinks the wine and leans his head back hopefully, smiling when Aziraphale combs his fingers back into it. He absolutely doesn’t make a sound, though.

Half a bottle later, Aziraphale says, ’Can I ask you something… a bit naughty?’

Crowley’s practically molten. ‘Right now, angel, you can ask me anything you like.’ There’s a strange guttural sound, and the touching stops for a moment. ‘Fingers!’

‘Oh. Sorry.’ Gentle nails scrape his scalp and he bites his tongue to keep quiet. 

‘Ask me anything.’

‘Yesterday morning, after you left the flat, did you… do anything?’

‘Bought a coffee. Came here. Checked the place out. Read the paper….’

‘I mean, with… my… body.’

Crowley tenses guilty before he remembers he really didn’t. He thought about it, but he doesn’t think that counts. He says as much. ‘I didn’t even peek.’

‘Oh. Right.’ Aziraphale sounds… disappointed, which is confusing. 

‘You were doing me a favour. I wasn’t going to repay that with… peeking.’

‘Were you even tempted?’

‘Of course I was tempted. I’m a demon, angel. I am temptation incarnate.’ That seems to satisfy him. Crowley glances up and back to see a little smile on his face. ‘Wait. Did you peek?’

‘Me?’ Aziraphale sounds scandalised. 

‘You did!’ It’s worth risking the fingers in his hair to catch the very guilty expression on the angel’s face. He himself was grinning from ear to ear. ‘What did you do? Did you peek? More? What did you do with my body after I left my flat?’

The fingers are pointedly removed. For the moment it doesn’t matter, he’s fairly certain he can get them back where they belong sooner or later, especially after this.

Aziraphale isn’t even looking at him now. ‘You have a very big -‘

‘Angel!’

‘Shower! You have a big shower. I wanted to try it out.’

‘It’s fantastic isn’t it?’ He’s still grinning.’ ‘Powerful. Like velvet needles on the bare skin.’

Aziraphale’s blushing. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t… touch or anything. Anymore than I had to.’

‘That’s… so hot.’

‘There was nothing ‘hot’ about it. Except for the water temperature, of course.’

‘So why has your face turned the exact colour of my hair?’

‘It’s… warm in here.’

‘Stop it! It is not.’ He couldn’t be happier. ‘I wish I’d taken the opportunity now.’

‘To do what?’

‘… peek?’

‘You do?’

It occurs to Crowley that they’re both very slowly sobering up. He dials down the wattage of his grin a little. ’Yeah.’

‘You would have been… interested?’

‘I’m sorry, obviously I’ve been too subtle in my advances, because I thought I’ve been making my interest in you abundantly obvious over the last few centuries.’

He expects Aziraphale to look away again, but he doesn’t. He holds Crowley’s gaze with impressively intention. ‘You have. I was just never sure what you wanted.’

‘Really?’

‘I mean, me, obviously. But for how long though?’ His voice falls quiet, his words carefully chosen. ‘I could never decide if you were simply curious, or if it was something more. You’re everything I’m not and I…. Before everything happened, the end of the world and all that, I always had trouble convincing myself that I was in fact what you wanted and that it wasn’t just about tempting an angel.’

Crowley considers his response carefully. He gets to his knees and turns to face him, bringing his face level with Aziraphale’s. Reaching out, he brushes the angel’s cheek with uncertain fingertips, a warning of sorts before he leans in and kisses him, a brief touch of lips.

‘Six thousand years,’ he murmurs while they’re barely apart. ‘It’s always been you. It’ll always be you.’

To his surprise, Aziraphale does this wonderful thing, closing the gap between them to nip gently at his bottom lip. ‘Yes. I see that now. After… everything that’s happened.’

‘So are we going to stop cocking about and do something with this?’

‘I thought… cocking about was what you had in mind.’

Crowley tilts his head slightly and kisses him again, sliding his tongue over Aziraphale’s. The angel hums softly and Crowley feels it, feels his human body react to it. Sudden need makes him rise up, try to climb into the chair along with Aziraphale. He manages to cram one boney knee against the angel’s thigh but there simply isn’t room, and a loud crack of wood freezes them both.

‘I’m not sure this particular item of furniture was made for two,’ Aziraphale points out. Crowley can’t disagree with that.

I think we need a bed,’ he suggests, and Aziraphale smiles.

‘I have one of those.’

 

They can dispose of clothing as easily as change it, but Crowley has a vague feeling that it isn’t just about being naked together, it’s about the getting naked too. He removes Aziraphale’s clothing like he’s peeling away wrapping on a particularly expensive Christmas present. 

Finally, he can’t help himself. ‘Don’t you ever get too hot in all this?’ It should kill the moment, but somehow Aziraphale’s unexpected giggle just makes it better.

‘You know I could just….’ 

But Crowley beats him to it, miraculously vanishing away his undergarments. Smooth, pale skin is exposed just for his pleasure, like a sumptuous meal laid out before him. 

‘Please, Crowley, let me….’ 

He gets rid of his own clothes in a moment. ‘You can next time, I promise.’

‘Are you finding yourself out of patience suddenly?’ 

It’s obvious Aziraphale is; he’s already pulling Crowley down onto the sheets with him, surprising strength dumping him on his back. Not that Crowley’s complaining when it gets him Aziraphale straddling him, almost chest to chest, so close he can push his fingers at long last through the oh-so-soft white-blond hair he’s longed to touch for millennia. He coaxes the angel’s mouth back to his own, loses himself in the kiss for a time. He’a vaguely aware that another part of the complicated human anatomy in which he resides is starting to ache, and it’s not long before the ache turns to pain. Aziraphale lifts his head and looks down, so he must be feeling it too.

‘Penises really are ridiculous things,’ he mutters, but when he reaches down between them and wraps his hand around them both, Crowley’s brain short-circuits and something happens that feels like drowning, only in a good way. 

It’s like a high voltage current that starts in his dick and spreads outward along each and every nerve; wildfire, burning brightly, leaving nothing but complete contentment and smug satisfaction in its wake. When it’s over, his whole body feels energised, yet at the same time, utterly drained. The same thing must have happened to Aziraphale, because he collapses on to Crowley like a dead weight. 

‘What in Heaven’s name was that?’ 

Aziraphale doesn’t answer for a time, but tries to slide off him, which Crowley is having none of. He wraps his arms around the angel and turns his head to see if a kiss is in range. He’s in luck. Aziraphale lingers against his lips, then tucks his head under Crowley’s chin and _snuggles_. 

‘I think that’s what the humans call ‘a climax’,’ he says eventually. Crowley doesn’t like the sound of that. It implies some sort of ending, and as far as he’s concerned, this is just the beginning. ‘Or, ‘orgasm’.’ That sounds better.

‘I want more of them. Soon. When I can move.’

Aziraphale’s nod confirms he’s in complete agreement.

 

It’s light outside when they wake. Crowley isn’t totally sure what time it is, or for that matter what day, although he doesn’t really care. He’s hungry. Then again, that’s just a sign of contentment. Aziraphale’s still and warm under his hands. Crowley skims his fingertips down his spine, as far as he can reach, then returns to his shoulders. The angel stirs and lifts his head. 

‘Hi.’

‘Good morning.’ He smiles, and Crowley thinks, yes it is, a very, very good morning; the best, in fact. 

‘That was fun.’ He’s aware the expression on his face probably looks wildly soppy, and one definitely not befitting a demon. ‘We should do it again.’

‘We should, absolutely.’ The look in Aziraphale’s eyes is equally soft. ‘How are you set for the rest of the century? Because my diary is suddenly, completely free.’

Crowley laughs, something dangerously close to happiness bubbling through him. ‘Food first. I’m starving.’

‘Ooh, an excellent idea.’ Aziraphale starts to sit up, something Crowley hasn’t even considered, he tightens his arms.

‘Whoa. Where are you going?’

‘You said... food?’ It hasn’t even occurred to Crowley that to go out means letting go. Aziraphale gazes affectionately him and it occurs to Crowley that it’s the same gaze he’s been looking at him with for a long, long time. ‘It’s all right, my dear. This isn’t a one off. We’ll be back here soon enough. Here, your place, everywhere. This is who, what we are now. No looking back, no regrets. You’re the one who keeps saying it; we’re on our side. This is what our side looks like.’

Crowley lets his arms fall to the sheets, and Aziraphale kisses his chest before he gets up. He’s gloriously graceful in his nakedness, and Crowley briefly considers letting him step out into the shop like that, but this sight is only for him. ‘Angel?’ He murmurs, when Aziraphale’s hand is around the doorknob. ‘Clothes?’

 

Instead of some grand restaurant, they end up in a tiny cafe on Fleet Street. It’s always been a favourite of Crowley’s, always reminded him of Florence. He’s a big fan of Italy. They sit at the back, at a small round table. It’s busy, but no one except for the waiter pays them any attention. The table is littered with cups in saucers and champagne glasses, empty plates covered in crumbs, cake knives, small spoons. Crowley and Aziraphale sit across from one another, holding hands in the space between the crockery, fingers in constant motion, exploring what little of each other decorum allows in public.

‘I didn’t like Hell,’ Aziraphale says suddenly.

Crowley raises his eyebrows. ‘Really? You do surprise me. What was it that put you off? The ever-present stench of fear and despair? The greasy air that makes your skin literally feel like its trying to crawl off you? Or the gooey, squishy, buggy nature of its residents?’

‘I hate the idea of you being there.’

‘I don’t think you need to worry about that for a while. Besides, I’d take Hell and Beelzebub over Heaven and Gabriel any day of the week. Some of things he said to me - to you - made me want to reach out and rip open his throat with my bare hands.’

Aziraphale regards him with utter adoration, which isn’t a million miles from how he’s been regarding him all day. ‘Oh. That’s so sweet of you. Probably for the best that you didn’t though. Might have given the game away.’

‘Doesn’t mean I won’t eternally regret not doing it.’

‘My dear, that’s a long time for regrets. I’m not sure you and I can afford to have them, if I’m being honest.’

Crowley runs his thumb over Aziraphale’s palm. ’You don’t have regrets?’

‘No. Well, I did. One. Up until last night. Well, actually up until I thought the world might actually end.’

‘Did you ever think it would?’

He has to think about that one, it seems, because it’s a while - long enough for the couple at the table to leave and another pair to take their place - before he answers. 

‘Quite honestly? There was a moment between realising Satan was about to rise from the pit and picking up my sword.’

Dipping his index finger into Aziraphale’s purlicue, Crowley feels the angel shiver slightly. ’I had a moment, now I remember, of thinking you were actually going to attack me with it.’

‘With what?’ He looks horrified. ‘My sword? You? Why would I attack you?’

‘Because you thought I’d given up. I mean, I gave you every reason to think I’d given up. You swept it up with purpose and brandished it like you meant it and I thought…. Just for a moment. Then you said you wouldn’t speak to me again if I didn’t think of something, and so I had to, didn’t I?’

‘I wouldn’t have hurt you. I… couldn’t. I was desperate. Everything we’d been through, the idea of watching everything burn despite it all…. I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. Made me think of something didn’t it?’

‘It did.’ He smiles, an almost proud expression. 

‘Don’t say it. I’m in enough trouble as it is.’ 

Aziraphale doesn’t say it. Instead, he lifts Crowley’s hand to his mouth and kisses his knuckles, one by one. ’Like you said, I’m sure we’ve given them enough of a fright that they’ll leave us alone for now.’

‘I hope so. Because there’s something I’d rather be doing than thwarting their disturbingly serious attempts to murder us.’

‘Is there?’ He sounds innocent enough, but Crowley can see straight through it. ‘And what would that be?’

 

A couple of weeks later, during a rare morning in his flat alone, the door bell chimes while Crowley’s misting his plants. He’s been trying to muster up the anger to yell at them, at least to threaten them, but he’s having trouble doing anything but praising them for their vivid colour and lush foliage. It’s a downward spiral. Without a stern hand guiding them, it’s going to be anarchy sooner or later.

Aziraphale’s asked him on a couple of occasions if he wants to buy a plant or two for the bookshop, or if he wants to bring over a couple of the smaller ones from the flat. Crowley’s declined up to now, but he’s not sure why and it doesn’t sound like a bad or dangerous idea. Maybe he’ll detour via his favourite garden centre on his drive back to Soho later.

He checks the CCTV. There’s a delivery man at the door, patiently waiting. He looks legit, and demons didn’t usually go in for the kind of subterfuge that involved dressing up. Then again, the incident in the park is still fresh in his mind, even if Hastur’s disguise had been nothing short of tragic.

He presses the intercom button. ‘What do you want?’

‘Delivery for a Mr A J Crowley. From the bookshop of A Z Fell and Co. I don’t need a signature, Sir, but I’ve been told only to hand this to,’ Crowley watches him glance at the instructions on his tablet, ‘the shifty-looking gentleman in the expensive sunglasses. Sir. Sorry, Sir.’

‘I’ll be there in a second.’

He is. The delivery man looks suitably surprised. He hands over the package and heads back to his van like a man in a hurry.

‘Really, Zira,’ Crowley mutters under his breath as he takes the stairs back up to his flat. ‘Shifty-looking?’

He closes the door and puts the package on the glass coffee table in the lounge. The tape and brown paper peel back miraculously, and he removes the black box wrapped in gold ribbon from the centre of it. Opening the box cautiously, he lifts out a silk scarf. It’s a deep red, with threads of gold, orange and black hand-sewn through the delicate material. It’s breathtakingly beautiful, unbelievably stylish and so very him. 

He loops it around his neck and plucks out the card that lies beneath it. It reads, 

‘Saw this and thought only of you, my fire, my darling. A x’

Damn the plants. Better things to do. He’s halfway to Soho before he remembers to lock up. Can’t blame him for being distracted, humans have come up with some wonderfully inventive things to do with scarves.


End file.
